


Ghosts

by deathofaraven



Series: Prompt Responses [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Immediately Post-Reichenbach, M/M, Prompt Response, Referenced Canonical Suicide, it's not very happy is what I'm trying to say but I'm pleased with it, mutually self-destructive obsessive relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-17
Updated: 2018-09-17
Packaged: 2019-07-13 08:20:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16014014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathofaraven/pseuds/deathofaraven
Summary: In the silence, the hours had stretched into long swathes of condemnation and guilt. It was the guilt that had surprised him. He’d done this—faking his death—for the people he was closest to. He’d done it to save their lives. He owed them nothing. ...except he didn’t quite believe that and, the longer he sat there, absent of distracting stimuli, the more he dwelled on it.“You should have jumped.”No. “You were supposed to play better.”





	Ghosts

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rebel_Dynasty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rebel_Dynasty/gifts).



> This is not really how I imagined walking into this fandom...with a prompt response. It's like walking into a banquet with a single-serving bag of Doritos that may or may not be stale, but here goes. I kinda think there's three different explanations for what's going on here, but I'm going to leave that up to you, whoever is reading this. I hope you enjoy it.
> 
> (Addendum: I'm not sure if I should tag for MCD given it didn't happen in the fic, but let me know if there's any tags I should add, thanks. Or if you see any grammar errors. Also, Rebel, I know I said it was gonna be a week but we both know I have like 0 self-control, so I don't think this is a surprise.)
> 
> \---
> 
> Prompt: "things you said when you were drunk"

It took less than ten minutes to hack the automated scanner and, one by one, empty the minibar of its tiny glass bottles. There wasn’t really a _point_ to bypassing the scanner—even if the fridge didn’t register the removal of the bottles, someone would _definitely_ notice them when he was gone. He didn’t feel charitable enough to consider putting them back. Mycroft—actually, he had no idea who had purchased this suite, but his brother was usually a safe bet—could deal with it later. He was bored. Worse than that, however, was the _stillness_. The silence that forbade him from pretending everything was normal. It had almost been a blessing, hours ago, when they’d finally brought him here. After all the _people_ and the _prattling_ and the _fussing_ over what to do with him now that he was _technically dead_...to come back to an empty room, where the only things he’d had need to worry about was washing the dried blood from his hair and changing, had been a balm. But _that_ had been earlier.

And, in the silence, the hours had stretched into long swathes of condemnation and guilt. It was the guilt that had surprised him. He’d done _this_ —faking his death—for the people he was closest to. He’d done it to save their lives. He owed them _nothing_. ...except he didn’t quite believe that and, the longer he sat there, absent of distracting stimuli, the more he dwelled on it. The consequences of his actions. The question of if this was really kinder than any of the alternatives. He could picture their reactions to the news of his “death” so clearly; it was disquieting. Like someone had walked over his grave. He frowned at the likeness, but it failed to distract him. Lestrade didn’t seem like the type to openly mourn him, but he was _exactly_ the sort of man that would allow the guilt to fester like an abscess inside him. Mrs. Hudson would be furious once the tears had stopped—after all the effort he’d made to keep her safe and to hurt anyone who dared harm her, what else was this but a selfish betrayal? And John.... _Dear John, could you ever forgive me after what I’ve forced upon you?_

It was moot to consider it. He didn’t have much of a choice now. Though Mycroft had earlier accused him of sulking, he didn’t agree. It was more like he was in mourning for everything he’d lost in the last twenty-four hours. Things he couldn’t get back—might never be able to return to, even if it was eventually safe to try.

The decision to start drinking was both terrible and only half-conscious. He recalled retrieving the last bottle, sitting back on the sofa to stare down at the small horde, and then he was abruptly _several_ tiny bottles in. Feeling foggy. He stared down at the empty bottles, lined up like little toy soldiers, as though they were enigmas. Liquor always seemed to amplify his current mood for better or worse until it made him tired. And his mood, at that particular moment in time, had been mired in bitterness.

“You should have jumped.”

He forced his eyes closed. _No_.

“ _For real_ , that is. I _thought_ we made a _bargain_ , Sherlock: we die, your friends get to live.” The playful lightness of his tone evaporated into a disappointed whine: “And you lied. _You lied_. You haven’t kept your end of the bargain _at all_.”

“I won’t be lectured by a _dead man_ ,” Sherlock snapped, refusing to look in the other voice’s direction.

“Why not? We’re _both_ dead. I’m just a little bit...well... _more_.”

He tried to ignore it; if he could manage that, it would go away. Because Jim Moriarty was dead—he’d put a gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger, leaving nothing but a smile and a “good luck with that” in his wake. And there was no possible way for him to be here, alive in his suite. He had to be imagining him or something equally insidious.

But acknowledging that, for once, didn’t seem to have any effect.

“That’s _always_ been a problem with us, hasn’t it? I’ve always been a bit more... _more_ and you’ve _never_ known how to handle it.” There was something like a pout in his voice that shifted, off and odd, as he added, “But _you_. You seem content to suffocate in...in...mediocracy and... _domesticity_ ,” he concluded, annoyed. “Maybe that’s the difference right there.”

“ _People have died_ today and you’re trying to goad me into playing with you?” Really, what had he expected?

“Well... _yes_. Don’t be stupid, _of course_ I am. And let’s not tell stories, _dear_ : one person died. We wouldn’t even _have_ to pretend if you weren’t being a coward about it.”

Heat surged through him, drowning his senses. A dull rushing sound filled his ears, swallowing the thudding of his pulse. He couldn’t focus on a thought beyond denial. Reacted on impulse.

The slight difference in weight was the only indication he had that the tiny bottle of vodka was full before he threw it. He didn’t get to enjoy the impact. He’d been too enthusiastic with his movements, too sudden, and he’d snagged his foot on the coffee table. Instead of hearing the smash of glass against a wall, all he’d heard what the heavy thudding of himself falling off the sofa. The clatter of glass bottles clinking into each other. His own muttered curse. His shoulder and side throbbed, reminding him that he'd jumped off a building earlier today and continuing to fall off things was ill advised.

From beyond his range of vision, hidden by the sofa, he heard a disbelieving giggle.

“Oh, _that_ struck _something_ ,” Moriarty declared around another laugh. And Sherlock could, too clearly, picture his reaction: how surprise would have widened his eyes and alarm would have twisted his lips. Utterly delighted all the while.

He dragged himself up onto the sofa as someone knocked on the suite’s door. He barely acknowledged it, sweeping a glare about the immediate area. He thought he might be alone now.

“Mr. Holmes?” a clipped voice called from the other side with the authoritative pseudo-concern that said he was being paid to care. Security. Sherlock hadn’t given them much thought beyond wondering briefly if Mycroft had stationed them there to keep others out or to keep _him_ inside. “Is everything alright in there, sir?”

“I’m fine,” he lied, pushing his curls from his face. It seemed to do the job for no further enquiries were directed his way.

Hands, firm and steady on his shoulders. They’d slipped down his chest. Tugged him back, toward the cushions. Another time, he might had pulled away from the touch or refused to acknowledge it. Instead he fell back into it. Felt the soft tickle of breath against his ear.

“We both know that’s far from the truth.”

“Why won’t you _leave_?”

“Like it or not, you _want_ me here,” was the, almost unkind, response. “You think it’s _what you deserve_ : _me_ , stepping on the _shards_.”

Sherlock pulled himself free with a grimace. “I want _nothing_ to do with you.”

The smile Moriarty gave him was cold and far from pleasant. “ _Liar_.” He stuffed his hands into his trouser pockets, looking more like a mischievous schoolboy than a notorious criminal mastermind as he paced, slowly, around the far end of the sofa. “It’s _rude_ to tell lies, Sherlock. Boring. _Ordinary_ , trying to hide your guilt behind stories. But _you knew_. You knew _exactly_ what I was going to do—who I would target and how. _You knew_ I wouldn’t let you win. You could have told them. Planned it better. This entire day could have gone _very differently_ if you’d put a _tiny_ bit more _effort_ into it. Instead you threw yourself into my hands and—oh, it was _heavenly_ , but _so disappointing_.” He came to a stop before him. “You knew we both weren’t leaving that roof. The only way _that_ story ended was with someone dying. It’s _sexier_ that way; no unanswered questions, no waiting. No boring end credits. It _needed_ to happen.”

Sherlock didn’t look up at him; he’d forced his pale eyes closed, pressed a hand to the bridge of his nose in a futile effort to push away stress. He wasn’t sure if he was sobering up or if the liquor was just finally starting to disagree with him. There was an odd sort of empty acceptance in being told things he’d been thinking ever since the ultimatum of jumping to his death had been presented to him. Like everything had been carved away until only a blank shell remained. Because he was mostly right. He’d known, or suspected, what would happen. He and Mycroft could have come up with another plan—one where everyone lived and the truth was buried under mountains of bureaucratic red tape; rewritten. Could have warned John instead of pushing him away. Could have told Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson the truth. Could have stopped Moriarty from getting the gun anywhere near his face. So many “could haves”. _Why_ were there so many? So many things that, if he’d only acted a second sooner....

He felt a shifting near his knees, heard a soft whisper of expensive fabric. Forced his eyes open and immediately found himself staring down into darkness. Well...into _eyes_. If he’d been a poet and not a detective, he might have said Moriarty’s eyes suited the definition of tenebrous to the letter. As it was, locked in the gaze of someone crouching easily between his knees, he felt more like he was being studied. Laid out and pinned down, prepared for dissection. Felt his throat work in response.

“What’s happening in _here_ , Sherlock?” he enquired, reaching up to tap the centre of Sherlock’s brow. For once, he sounded almost...confused. “Tell me what you’re thinking. I _can’t_....” He broke off with a frustrated hiss of breath.

_I think...I might be lost. I don’t know what to do. I’m alone. And John...I miss John. How do you miss someone you’ve only been apart from for a day? I don’t know that I can do this—destroy your network. I’m beginning to fear I should have jumped when you first said to. No plan. Just grabbed you and jumped and let it be over because this is both of our fault. Maybe I am a fraud. I couldn’t fix this—I couldn’t think to stop this. I was a fool. Stupid. Idiotic. I am lost. What do I do?_ But he swallowed the words, refusing to let them anywhere near his lips. Any doubts had to be locked away and discarded. But his walls were half-crumbled and things he’d previously locked away were already crawling out. Wanting to share the hurt.

With a shaky breath, he murmured, “You were supposed to be _so much more_.”

He felt his recoil against his legs. As viscerally-charged as if he’d slapped him. But if this vision of Moriarty wanted truth, then he could give it that...whether or not it was the truth he _wanted_ was another thing entirely.

“You were supposed to be _the best_ , the one _worthy_ of my time and attention. The one I looked forward to when everyone else told me it was wrong. You were—” the words broke and disintegrated in Sherlock’s throat. “ _We_ were supposed to play for years. _You were supposed to play better!_ But you’ve turned out like _all the rest_. Weak. Unable to _keep up_. I may have lied, but _you left_. You _had_ to be _petty_ and spiteful and _you didn’t even win_. What is the point of—of—if you’re not _even_ going to beat me? Now you’re _gone_ and _I_ have to move on, knowing that _nothing_ I’ll face will _ever_ be _anything_ like you. Knowing that what I _want_ is _you_ and _all I’ll get_ is cheap pretenders and _scraps_ left behind by less clever people because _you aren’t here_. Because I can _not_ have you...and there is _nothing_ they could offer to occupy me as you have.”

Alright, so maybe that was too much truth. More than he’d ever considered saying. His breathing still felt shaky and uneven, but some of the anger was gone. Faded. He hadn’t realised how much he’d wanted, _needed_ , to say that out loud even if his guilt remained. He almost dreaded seeing Moriarty's expression. But what ever anger or offense he’d expected to see wasn’t there. Instead, a flush had crept over his cheekbones; his eyes had widened, lips parted. Breaths shallow and unsteady. For once, his expression wasn’t shifting with every thought that passed through his mind. Sherlock waited, watching; both wanting to see how he’d react and not at the same time.

The silence stretched, lingering. Moriarty shifted. “I’m not sorry.”

He felt a humourless smile tug at the corner of his mouth. He knew. He knew it too well, and that was one of the worst parts. “You’d lose most of your charm if you were.”

They settled back into the silence. And, for a long time, neither moved. After the moment had passed he reached out, almost casually. Ran his fingers along the edge of the lapels before him.

“ _Distract me_ from the mess we’ve made.”

“ _Easy_.”

~ * ~

It was the ringing that woke him: the shrill, off-key tone of the hotel’s landline. Sherlock groaned, willing it to shut up, but it continued heedlessly on. His head pounded—mouth felt achingly dry, stomach unsettled. His entire body hurt. He slowly forced his eyes open, finding himself staring blankly at the ceiling. The suite was dark but for the oddly-muted light struggling to cut through the curtains closed over the large, nearby window. He didn’t recall turning off the lights, but there was also a large gap in his memory and, judging by his view from where he lay, he hadn’t made it to the bed last night. The ringing stopped.

He slowly sat up. He’d been sprawled across the sofa, head resting on an unfamiliar coat—he could still smell a faint cologne clinging to him from their contact. The ringing started again. Sherlock felt a sigh escape him. It had to be Mycroft; no one else knew he was here. No one he cared about, at least. Mentally grumbling to himself, he swung his legs off the sofa...and froze.

There should have been bottles down there. He remembered drinking most of them and didn’t think he’d cleaned them up. He turned his gaze towards the minibar. Frowned. All the bottles were there, neatly organised: the empty in front of the full, lined up by type. He found he couldn’t look away. His skin felt prickly, like ants were crawling beneath it. No matter how drunk he’d been, he didn’t think it was something he would have done. But there was one missing. The one he’d thrown, he assumed, but it did nothing to fix the unsettled sensation sweeping through him.

Sherlock jolted to his feet, stumbling slightly. A sharp pain flared in his shin as, for the second time in less than twelve hours, he banged into the coffee table. He limped around the sofa. He didn’t understand the urge, but he _needed_ to see the shattered bottle. To know that he had indeed thrown it at a ghost; that _everything_ had been in his head. He barely registered that the phone was still attempting to demand his attention.

He didn’t find any broken glass or half-dried liquor. Didn’t _smell_ any liquor either, other than what had soured in his mouth and what alcohol was used to carry the scent in the cologne. _How much did I dream? How much happened?_ The phone was still ringing. Insistent. He couldn’t focus with it blaring through his head. Resigned, he turned toward it on unsteady feet, half-stumbling over to a table near the door. Red light flashing angrily at him from the landline’s base. He prepared himself for whatever Mycroft was about to throw at him and lifted the handset to his ear. Gaze travelling carefully around the room, searching for anything out of place as he listened. Everything looked untouched by anyone but him. Dismissing his unsettling as just the remnants of what he’d thought he’d seen, Sherlock turned back towards the phone.

He was half-way through his rebuttal to his brother when he saw it: something out of place, sitting on the desk nearby. A tiny bottle. Without paying attention to what he was doing, he found himself slowly lowering the handset. He could hear the sharp murmur of Mycroft’s voice through the receiver, but ignored it. Blinked. The bottle was still there. Full and in one piece. The same brand of vodka as the hotel stocked in the minibar. Sherlock felt his breath catch and forced himself to clear his throat. He felt tenuous and unsteady—head spinning and legs weak—like something might shatter if he moved too quickly. Still ignoring the voice on the phone, his one firm grip on reality, he set the handset down. And picked up the bottle.


End file.
